Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

4

Vance Calder drove the Bentley smoothly down Sunset Boulevard, chatting amiably about the California weather and flying on a corporate jet, then turned left, went up a steep hill for a short distance, and turned right into a parking lot. Before the car stopped, it was surrounded by photographers.

Calder took it well. “Good evening, fellows,” he said to them, waving and smiling.

Stone followed along in his wake, marveling at his aplomb in the circumstances. The doors closed behind them, and the photographers were gone. Stone noticed two heavy-set young men enter after him.

Calder was greeted effusively by the young woman at the desk, who hardly gave Stone a glance before escorting them to a corner table at the window. Along the way, Stone had an experience he had previously had only in the company of a beautiful woman: he was ignored by everyone in the restaurant; they were all looking at Vance Calder.

They stopped at a few tables so that Vance could say hello to a few people—Billy Wilder, Tony Curtis, and Milton Berle. Stone shook their hands, marveling at the facts of Wilder’s youthful looks, Curtis’s age, and that Berle was alive at all. Finally they were settled in the corner, with Stone in the gunfighter’s seat, facing the room, and Vance with his back to the crowd.

“I hope you don’t mind sitting there,” Calder said, shaking out his napkin. “My back will discourage unwelcome callers.”

“Not at all,” Stone replied. “It must be difficult for you to go out in public like this.” Stone noticed that the two men who seemed together when they had followed him into the restaurant were now sitting in different places, one at the bar, the other at a small table.

“One learns to handle it,” Calder said, gazing at the menu. “Fame is a two-edged sword; it gets one lots of things, like this table, but it exacts a price, the photographers. I reconciled the two sides of the blade long ago. By the way, don’t order a starter; that will be taken care of.”

As if by magic, a waiter appeared with a small pizza decorated with smoked salmon, capers, and onions. “Compliments of Wolfgang,” the waiter said. “May I get you a drink, Mr. Calder?”

“Stone?” Calder asked.

“I’ll have a Beefeater’s and tonic, please.”

“Bring me a very dry Tanqueray martini,” Calder said pleasantly. “A twist, no olive.”

The waiter vanished, then reappeared faster than Stone had ever seen a waiter move.

They ordered, then sipped their drinks.

“I met Louis Regenstein on the airplane,” Stone said. “A charming man.”

“That he is,” Calder agreed, “and one of the three smartest men I’ve ever dealt with.”

“Who are the other two?”

“David Sturmack and Hyman Greenbaum.”

“I’ve heard of Greenbaum, I think; an agent, isn’t he?”

“Was; he died nearly ten years ago.”

“Who is…?”

“David Sturmack? Of course, you’ve never heard of him—that would have pleased him—but along with Lou Regenstein and Lew Wasserman at MCA, he has more personal influence in this town than anyone else. You’ll meet him tomorrow night.”

Stone wondered why Calder was entertaining while his wife was missing, but before he could ask, Calder began talking again.

“Hyman Greenbaum was my first agent—in fact, my only one—and he gave me the best advice a young actor could ask for.”

“What was that?”

“He taught me the relationship between money and good work.”

“You mean, if you’re paid better, you do better work?” “No, no. When Hyman signed me, he sat me down over a good lunch and talked to me like a Jewish Dutch uncle. He said, ‘Vance, you’ve got everything going for you in this town, but there is something you have to do.’ What’s that, I a

sked. He said, ‘Pretty soon you’re going to begin to make some real money; what you have to do is not spend it, at least, not at first.’ He went on to explain. He said, ‘I’ve watched talented young actors come to this town for a long time, and this is what they do: they get a good part that pays pretty good money, and the first thing they do is move out of the fleabag where they’ve been living, take a nice apartment and buy a convertible. They make a couple more pictures, getting even more money, and they buy a house in the Hollywood Hills, then, after a couple more pictures, in Beverly Hills, and they buy a Mercedes convertible. Then there’s a pause, and nothing good comes along. Then a script comes in that’s not good, but there’s a good co-star, and it’s being shot in the south of France, so what the hell—there’s a mortgage on the house and a loan on the car, and expenses have to be met, so they take it. The picture bombs, and after a couple like that, they’re overlooked for the best scripts. After that, it’s a TV series and some movies of the week, and once they start doing those, it’s almost impossible to get a good feature part again. Don’t behave that way.’”

“And you didn’t?”